Friends?
by Queen of the Skye
Summary: Everyone expects them to hate each other, but for some reason, they don't. The epic saga of Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy.
1. Tears for an Owl

So, I started this story quite a while ago, and then abandoned it...well, not abandoned it, but neglected it cruelly for well over a year. This is the start of a review process I am initiating with all my stories (at least, all the ones I think worthy of redemption). In this process I intend to improve upon what my fourteen-year-old self wrote in a frenzy of fanatic passion, taking advantage of constructive criticism recieved in reviews and of over a year's new writing experience. Enjoy, or don't.

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"_Make sure you beat him in every class, Rosie."_ A random memory fragment, six years old, drifted through my mind as I considered Scorpius Malfoy. I had beaten him in every class, just as my father wanted. He never specified anything else about the boy, except that _"Grandpa Weasley would never forgive you if you married a pureblood."_ Well, marriage was out of the question anyway. But he never said anything about friendship. I had tried not to hate him, even though, by all accounts, he didn't deserve the chance.

And Malfoy was crying. He was trying to hide it, and failing miserably I might add, but I never, ever left anyone in tears. That was just not me. "Are you okay?" Anyone could see that he wasn't.

"What do you want, Weasley?" He glared at me, the force of his annoyance somewhat diminished by the fact that his mouth was trembling and tears continued to leak from his eyes.

"It was a trick question, Malfoy. You are clearly not okay. What's wrong?" I tried again. He glared again before picking up a small, limp bundle of feathers. It was an extremely tiny owl with a letter tied to its ankle. An extremely tiny, extremely dead owl, if the angle of its neck was anything to go by.

Malfoy's face twisted, and his voice was broken. "It-it was my sister's owl. I was p-practicing shield charms outside…it hit the shield and…and…"

"You have a sister?" I asked as I moved to sit beside him. He nodded.

"Astoria. She's ten."

"Give me the owl, Malfoy." He handed it to me, then tried to grab it back when he saw me pull out my wand.

"What are you doing?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Fixing its neck. That owl died of natural causes, Malfoy, possibly even the strain of such a long journey, which you will not mention, of course. Here." I handed the repaired, though still dead, bird, back to him, and he took it. "I can even put it in a special box so that it won't start to rot until it gets to your sister."

"I don't need your help!" he said angrily. I raised my eyebrows.

"You don't need my help until I've told you how to explain its death without your sister hating you, you mean. But don't worry, I understand. What Malfoy needs help from a blood-traitor Weasley?" I gave him my brightest smile as I said this.

Malfoy grimaced. "Sorry, Weasley, I didn't mean it to come out like that. I don't want to hurt my sister, you're right. Thank you." The last words came out sounding hurried or forced, but they were there. There was hope for him yet.

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This is the only chapter that shall remain untouched. Please review, even if you have already.


	2. Thinking of Him

Behold the revised Chapter Two! I'm quite...well, a little bit, anyway...proud of this. I don't get to be _quite_ proud of anything until I write a _new_ chapter. And this thing is ancient.

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My encounter with Scorpius Malfoy shocked me somewhat. It wasn't as if we had never spoken—for the past six years, we had shared an uneasy rivalry in classes. But I had never expected to find him in tears over the corpse of a tiny owl. I guess, if it had occurred to me, I would have expected him to be the kind to desecrate the corpse of the tiny owl. People surprise you all the time.

This didn't change anything. I was still the halfblood who was better than him, and thus the halfblood who he was honor-bound to try to beat for the sake of pureblood superiority and all that rot.

But though I had always watched him, now I _stared._ So did he, come to that, with a half-curious quirk to his eyebrow and mouth as if I was some rare creature—not human, but not far from—that had suddenly revealed a powerful secret ability.

_He doesn't have many friends._ It was no more than a fragment of a thought and disappeared as quickly as it had come with no memory of it left behind.

All these thoughts were spinning through my head as I sat in the Gryffindor common room with my History of Magic book on my lap—I liked H of M, and it came easily to me—completely oblivious to my surroundings.

My surroundings, at that moment, consisted of my best friend Emma Bishop and whatever nasty charm she was concocting around my head. Emma was ditzy, but she had several excuses to be, and her skill with mischievous charms that did strange things to people who sat quietly lost in their thoughts was also legendary—and also with good reason. "What have you done to me this time?" I asked, trying not to move.

"Nothing," she said, her voice that of an earth-bound angel, "absolutely nothing."

I turned around, and a pile of random crap fell on my head. Emma dissolved into giggles. "Oh, you think it's funny, do you?" I growled at her, trying not to do the same thing as I pelted her with anything that came to my hands. She threw them back at me, and I gave up and laughed my head off.

"What could you possibly be thinking about for fifteen bloody minutes, anyway?" Emma asked when I could no longer lift my arms for laughing so hard. She was shaking with helpless mirth. "The handsome and talented Garrett Drake, perhaps?"

Emma has yet to get it through her head that I would rather snog a woolly mammoth than the 'handsome and talented Garrett Drake.' "No," I said, my tone matching hers for sugar-sweetness. "I was thinking of more pleasant things, like smelly mud and flobberworms and mustaches with food in them." If I revealed that I had actually spent the last fifteen minutes thinking about Scorpius Malfoy, my romance-minded friend would never shut up about it.

She gagged at the mental image and laughed again. "Hah! I just bet you were, Rose Weasley, I just bet you were." The problem with Emma is that she could tell when I was lying. She just preferred to believe that I was lying _completely_, and that I actually had been mooning over the idiot Drake.

"You are a completely miserable excuse for a friend, and I leave you now, alone and miserable, because my free period is almost over," I announced grandly. Emma just grinned; we played this charade with great regularity.

I ran out of the dormitory—I had wasted so much time with Emma that I had about 30 seconds to get to Advanced Potions, a class Emma didn't take. When I got to the class, panting and five seconds late, the only available seat was one directly in front of Scorpius buggering Malfoy, who gave his trademark smirk—not _that_ much had changed—when I arrived. I ignored him and sat down just before Slughorn entered the room.

I pretended to listen carefully to Slughorn's every word, and when he stopped talking, the wood of my desk suddenly became very interesting, as did the myriad of ingredients required for the particular potion we were making today. I realized what I was doing and blushed—I had never found it necessary to act like a fool in Malfoy's presence before. But my ingredients were still very interesting.

"Hey, Weasley!" came Malfoy's voice from behind me. I ignored him. Armadillo bile is a fascinating color…Malfoy jabbed my back. "Weasley!"

"What do you want, Malfoy?" I demanded softly, not turning around.

"I just wanted…to say thank you. About my sister's owl," he said. "I got another letter from her today…she…she says she doesn't blame me at all and…she's glad I took such good care with it, sending it back and all."

"That's _great_, Malfoy," I said rolling my eyes, my tone dripping pure sarcasm. "I'm busy." _It is one thing to spend almost half a free period thinking of him, another to spend half a minute in front of him in class._

"I was just trying to thank you!" he snarled.

"You're welcome," I said. He was not, but it was the right thing to say, and my head was going fuzzy. Malfoy shut up. And I went back to studying my Potions ingredients.

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Please review!...even if you already have!...


	3. A Moment That Doesn't Exist

No author's note; I don't need it. Soon I will be able to post a _real_ new chapter.

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Why couldn't he just leave me alone? Well, why couldn't I just forget him is the question I should be asking, because really, he didn't torment me much more than usual. It was me, my fault, my stupid mind's fault. As in real life, he remained in a corner of my head, taunting me with his presence, smirking at me when I tried to do my homework or concentrate on anything. I took to glaring at the back of his shining blond head.

_He doesn't have that many friends._

Emma, my disgustingly observant friend, called me on it. "Why the Malfoy fixation, Rose? There are better people to stare at." I just wordlessly shook my head. In all honesty, I had no idea why I was staring at him either. He was a prat, worthy of nothing but loathing. _You didn't think that when he was crying. Do people have to cry to win your respect?_ my traitorous mind reminded me. I had no answer to satisfy myself with. And so I stared.

_Maybe it's just that…_

We had no further contact until one fateful, rainy afternoon in the library. I was securely tucked into a corner, concealed by mountains of books (I hoped), doing my homework. I was bored. I was not lonely. I did not want company. I became aware of a presence just outside my cave. The presence was blond, tall, male, and went by the name of Scorpius Malfoy. "What do you want, Malfoy?" I asked without looking up.

"If you're going to be so bloody difficult, I won't bother you, then," he said angrily. I also detected a hint of embarrassment in his voice. I sighed. _Try to be nice…just try._

_Maybe it's just that he doesn't know…_

"Sorry. My question still stands, though." I still hadn't looked up from my homework.

"I…erm…I saw that…"_ Spit it out!_ Then, in a rush, "."

Took you that long to ask for homework help. Damn pureblood pride. "Sure. One sec." I shifted a huge pile of books out of the way to make room for him. He sat, hesitantly, glancing around as if making sure no one he knew was watching. Again, damn pureblood pride. It took me about a minute and thirty seconds to figure out that Malfoy understood the Sleeping Draught perhaps even better than I did, and was in need of no help. "Malfoy, you don't need help on this." Not a question.

He looked chagrined. "I could pretend to need help with my Transfigurations homework or something."

"Why? Why aren't you avoiding me like the plague or mocking me? That's what you usually do. You don't pretend to need homework help."

_Maybe he just doesn't know how to be nice to people._

Now his usually pale face was turning bright red. "I haven't been able to get you out of my head for about a month," he mumbled.

Oh, god. I could feel my face going red as well. _This is awkward._ I shut my eyes. Opened them. Shut them again. _Maybe when I open them again it'll all be over._ Nope. No such luck. "Same with me," I muttered, so quietly I could barely hear myself. Malfoy's pale gray eyes widened. I glanced at him, hunching myself miserably down further into my nest of books.

"Aaaw, isn't this _sweet_," came a drawling voice from above us. Adrien Smith (Slytherin, where else, but he sure as hell didn't have anything good in his mind for Malfoy) stood over us, his mouth twisted in a smirk. Not as impressive as Malfoy's. Malfoy reached for his wand, but before he could get it out, I had a silencing charm on Smith. And immediately after that, a memory charm to erase everything that might have happened to him in the past five minutes. Not as good as Emma could have been, but it would do.

"Which brings us to this point, Malfoy," I said as Smith wandered aimlessly away. "These past few minutes did not exist, okay?" He nodded and walked away. I stared at the homework in my lap. It made no sense anymore. I pulled out another sheet of parchment and wrote at the top, in large, decisive letters, _**Scorpius Malfoy**_.

_Is a prat. No, used to be a prat. Now I don't know what he is._

_Is a Malfoy. Mum says that it doesn't matter. Well, shouldn't matter. Grandpa Weasley says the same._

_Won't stay out of my head._

_Can't keep me out of his head._

_And we now have an experience that didn't exist._

_I don't know what to think. I don't really want to think._

There was no way I was going to get any of my homework done now.

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Perhaps you will review. That would be nice.


	4. An Unhappy Ankle

This is the first new chapter I've written for this story in over a year. I hope you like it.

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It was in Herbology that _it_ happened. Gryffindor had three classes with the Slytherins, and Herbology wasn't one of them, but Slytherin, I knew, had Magical Creatures right now with Hufflepuff, and I could see them out on the lawn. I stood beside a pane of clear glass that was set (sort of like a window) into the foggier panes that formed the greenhouse walls. One pale gold head stood out among the black robes. I couldn't tell what creature they were frantically chasing, but I could see, quite clearly, when the pale gold head tripped and went flying.

And I could hear the derisive laughter from the lawn at the Malfoy bereft of his dignity; he started walking (limping, I noticed) toward the castle alone.

My hand was in the air before I knew it or could regret it; Professor Longbottom nodded to me. "Yes, Weasley?" Neville Longbottom was an old friend of my parents and came to our house frequently, but at school we tended to keep separate.

"Can I…erm…I have to go to the bathroom," I said. I was prepared, if necessary, to make vague references to womanly problems, which tended to scare male teachers, but it didn't come to such a pass. He nodded, and I ducked out of the greenhouse, making a beeline for the limping, gold-crowned figure that was only partway to the castle.

And then I stopped. _What the hell am I doing?_ But my feet didn't really care, and they started up again, carrying me with rather frightening speed to the castle. "Malfoy," I called out when I was close to do so without bellowing like a fool.

_What the hell am I doing?_ I wondered again.

He turned, and I couldn't name the expression that flickered across his face before it settled back into sullen petulance mixed with vague pain. "What do you want, Weasley?" he demanded, but not like he really meant it.

"I saw you trip," I said, wondering yet again what the hell I was doing. "But I'm going to the bathroom."

He snorted. Just a little. "Yes," he said, "I tripped. Hard. I couldn't tell if it was a Tripping Charm or someone's foot, but Eleanor Goyle is accomplished at Tripping Charms and her twin brother Ellis has very long legs." He glanced down. "It's probably broken."

"If it was broken you couldn't walk," I said. Mother didn't like healing with magic, mostly because it was the only kind of magic she wasn't amazing at, and so for the various scrapes my brother and I got into she preferred to use Muggle apparatus. Dad always laughed and shook his head, but he couldn't do any better. But to make a long story short, I had picked up…a bit. And certainly I knew more healing than Mum. "It's probably just sprained. Here, sit down, I'll look—" I stopped short, my cheeks suddenly burning. _What the hell am I doing?_

"Get the hell away from me, Weasley!" he shouted suddenly, his voice louder than necessary. My cheeks burned still redder, and I leapt away from him as if scalded. But we were still going the same place, more or less, and I couldn't really get away. I matched my pace to his, scolding myself furiously.

Yet once we entered the castle, he turned to me. "Sorry about that, Weasley," he said, his voice still terse, but it was an apology.

"It's fine," I said, my voice frosty.

"I'm serious," he said. "I didn't mean to jump down your throat like that, I just… Forget it." His cheeks were burning scarlet as well.

"Fine." I was all set to flounce off in a huff, go to the bathroom (just so I could say I had been there) and sulk for a while, but a voice, one I had been half expecting, called me back.

"Wait." I turned. He was sitting on the floor with a very forlorn expression on his face. He resembled a kicked puppy.

I do not kick puppies. I love puppies. But everyone knows what a kicked puppy looks like, and Malfoy looked like a kicked puppy at that moment.

I took a deep breath and glanced skyward as if asking for divine strength (at least, I hoped that that was the impression I gave) and looked back at him. "Yes?" _And this had better be the last 'bugger off, no, wait, come back, no, bugger off!'_

"Could you, erm, actually fix my, erm, ankle?" he asked. He asked _nicely,_ and something told me that Scorpius Malfoy wasn't really accustomed to asking for things nicely.

When I had picked my jaw up off the ground and made sure my voice still worked, I asked what seemed to be a fairly simple question. "Why me? Why not Madame Pomfrey?" Sure, she was ancient (Mum and Dad had told me about her) but she was still an amazing healer.

Malfoy grimaced. "Let's just say that I'm avoiding the hospital wing." When I looked skeptical, he sighed. "Remember Fritz? The Beater whose ribs got completely smashed by a Bludger?" He was a Slytherin, and I hadn't really cared, and what did he have to do with anything anyway? "Please?"

"Fine," I said. "But it won't be half as good as what Madame Pomfrey could do." He nodded, sat on a bench, and removed his shoe and sock. Holding my breath a little bit (I didn't really want to know what his feet smelled like) I took his injured ankle and did what was necessary, then took his sock. I pulled at it, prodded it with my wand, and pulled some more, so that it vaguely resembled a bandage you could use on a sprained ankle. "I hope you don't like this sock," I said, wrapping it tightly.

"Thanks," he said.

I didn't say anything. I stood, dusted off my knees, and went to the bathroom. I didn't know what to say.

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Reviews are greatly appreciated, as always.


	5. Asking Rose Weasley Out

"Rose," came a voice. I glanced up, surprised, at my friend. We were in the great hall, at breakfast—it had been a month, and we'd scarcely spoken since then. Sometimes he looked like he wanted to, and sometimes I wanted to, but nothing had come of it. "Where do you go, Rose?" She smiled, teasing me, but I could have answered seriously.

_To Scorpius Malfoy,_ I could have told her. What I really said was, "Was I spacing out again?"

"Yeah. For at least half an hour. What could possibly be going through your head, Rose?" Emma looked at me knowingly, as if she had no doubt what had been going through my head. She was wrong. But I wasn't going to tell her that. "Anyway, look sharp, Garrett Drake is coming over here!" I looked up, not out of interest but out of trying to tell whether she was telling the truth. She was.

"And I should care…why?"

"Because it's Garrett bloody Drake, and the next Hogsmeade visit is tomorrow!" she said as if this should have been the first thing to leap into my mind. I sighed and watched the Great Dimwit approach.

"Hi, Rose," he said. His voice was slow, deep, and sounded as if he had to think carefully about each word to make sure it was the right one. I nodded.

"Hi." My voice was thin, tight, and I was trying my best to project feelings of 'you are not welcome here' with those two letters.

"Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come to Hogsmeade with me tomorrow." Now he sounded confident.

"Sorry, but I have other plans." I didn't, but that wasn't the point; the point was that I could think of few things I wanted less than to spend a day in the company of Garrett Drake. I'm sure that I'm the first girl ever to turn the Great Dimwit down, and I could hear Emma's gasp of shock, disbelief, and all-around horror at my words.

"O-okay," he stammered, and then left.

"Why did you do that?" Emma shrieked at me.

"If you think he's so much, you should go out with him yourself," I said angrily before running off, no longer interested in breakfast. Unfortunately, without the company of my best friend, the free period would no longer be quite so interesting. _I can go to the library and finish my homework…god, I am such a goody two-shoes. Oh well._ I went to the library.

Barring the presence of Madame Pince, it was probably one of my favorite places in the castle. Growing up surrounded by my mother's books had instilled a deep and abiding love for them in me, and the library always seemed so safe, somehow. I settled into my usual corner and began an essay that wasn't due for a month at least. Yes, I know I'm pathetic.

"Hey, Rose." Ah yes, of course. _Why is he talking to me now? He hasn't said two words to me all month._

"Hi, Malfoy." I looked up at him. He was acting really odd, it occurred to me—as if he was being pursued or observed or some such thing.

"I—"

"Look, Malfoy, that's really insulting," I interrupted him. "If you don't want to be seen talking to me, don't talk to me. You don't have to act like you've just committed a crime." His face turned a lovely shade of red. "Sorry," I added, somewhat belatedly, to my rant. "It's just—"

"No, it's okay." Well, this is just the day for interrupting, isn't it? He stopped twitching and looked at straight at me. "I was wondering if you wanted…to…go to Hogsmeade…with me…tomorrow…" Upon seeing my shocked expression, he amended, "As friends, I mean."

_Well, isn't this just the day for asking Rose Weasley out?_ was the first thing to enter my head. Then, _after a month, this is what he says?_ And immediately after that, _well, why not?_ "Sure," I said. "As friends." My stomach felt odd—perhaps I had not eaten enough at breakfast.

He looked a little startled, but pleased too, and glanced around himself again before saying, "Um, great. I'll meet you outside the great hall after breakfast?"

"Okay. See you tomorrow." I wanted to run away as I had at breakfast, but my position (in the corner, surrounded by books) prevented it. Malfoy left at a higher-than-usual speed instead, and I was left to stare blankly at my homework and wonder what I had gotten myself into. A date—no matter what he said—with Scorpius Malfoy.

Part of me was cursing my own stupidity. Part of me was still trying to pick my jaw up off the ground. But the biggest part of me? Well, the biggest part of me was…excited.


	6. That Bastard

Thank you to Morzan's Elvish Daughter! She is my only reviewer—come on, you lot!

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That left a full day of classes, three of which were with Malfoy…Scorpius?...no, definitely Malfoy. For a moment, entering Transfiguration, I wondered if I was supposed to sit with him or something, then kicked myself mentally and took my normal seat. Nothing happened that day. We still didn't talk. But from time to time I glanced at him as I always did, and from time to time our eyes met as they always did, and I saw his face stretch into a little half-smile each time.

And during lunch, I went to the Owlrey to send a letter I'd composed during class to my parents. On a hunch. Just a short letter, about Draco Malfoy's Sorting, and about a bit later, but mostly the Sorting.

You see, I'd assumed over the years, as had everyone else in my large extended family, that since Scorpius Malfoy was identical to his father, _they were the same._ But Dad (and Mum, to a certain extent, but Dad's had more to do with him being a slimy git) would tell stories, and so would Uncle Harry, and they didn't seem to fit Scorpius.

I just wanted to be sure.

I also managed, over the course of the day, to avoid Emma, who was probably still horrified that I'd turned down _Garrett Drake_. God. But there was no way I could hide from her in the dormitory, and there she cornered me. And apparently, she had forgiven me for having 'no taste in dates.'

"So, Rose, d'you want to meet me and Leah at the Three Broomsticks tomorrow?" Emma, in all her annoying ignorance, asked me. Leah was a Hufflepuff, and considered me (as I considered her) a casual acquaintance at best, but she and Emma lived in the same town and were good friends at home.

"Um, no, I'm, um…um…busy," I mumbled lamely, unintentionally opening myself up for the Spanish Inquisition.

"Oh, come on, Rose, you can't get away with that. Not with me. Spit it out, what are you doing? And does it involve a boy?"

"Why would it involve a boy? God, everything is romance with you, Em. I'm catching up on some homework," I said in what I hoped was a convincing tone.

I failed. "Rose Weasley has gotten behind on homework? Call the Daily Prophet," she snorted. "Just tell me. I'll keep your secret, just tell me. Come on, Rosie, tell your best friend who your date's with." Emma looked at me, her brown eyes exaggeratedly huge and pleading, her lip trembling. I'd seen this expression before, it was a torture designed to make the hearts of hardened criminals melt and convince them to admit to their crimes. I opened my mouth, and at the last moment changed my mind.

"No I will _not_ tell you," I blurted out before I could change my mind again. Emma's pitiful expression disappeared in a second, and she swung a pillow at me.

"You suck!"

It was an interesting sight that met the eyes of the other Gryffindor seventh-year girls when they came in half an hour later. I lay on the floor, surrounded by the feathers formerly contained within a busted pillow. Emma lay on her bed, still holding the deceased pillow, and we were both quivering with silent laughter. The best part—Emma had given up on her quest to desecrate my privacy.

I fidgeted with my appearance a bit more than usual the next morning, but finally, after snapping at myself far too many times and then reminding myself that it was _just Malfoy_, and therefore _no big deal_, and other similar things, I finally forced myself into a sweater and skirt and dithered even more with my uncontrollable red hair. Usually I wore it in a tight French braid to keep it well out of the way, but today…I twisted it into a messy knot and prayed it would stay there. Went down to breakfast. Ate mechanically. And finally, left the hall to wait for Malfoy.

Most of the school would be leaving right after breakfast, I knew. He hadn't said _when_ he would meet me, but…I could practically feel each second passing. More and more people finished breakfast. _Where was he?_

People began to file past me out the doors and towards Hogsmeade. He still remained nonexistent. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen him in the great hall, either. Not that I'd been looking. Much.

Breakfast could no longer fairly be said to be ongoing. All that remained were a few first and second years, too young to go, and a tiny smattering of seventh years who'd seen it all before. No pale head. Nowhere could I see him.

Emma passed me, her arm linked with Leah's. They were chattering happily, and Emma waved to me where I stood with panic rising in my throat. For one thing, I looked like an idiot. For another…

…a little bit of me had wanted this.

Still another part of me wasn't surprised. Not even a little bit. And then I got angry.

Anger wasn't an emotion I was really that accustomed to, and it flooded me, sudden and burning and hot and overpowering. I couldn't even tell what I was really angry _at,_ only that I wanted to _rend_ something, to destroy it and possibly to make it feel pain… Instead, I started toward the library.

Halfway there, I stopped. _I. Am. A. Loser._ And turned around, my mind working mechanically through the faint haze of fury that still surrounded me. _I'll go to Hogsmeade,_ I decided. _I'll meet Emma and Leah, and if I see Scorpius Malfoy I will slap his pointy little face._

It was a satisfying plan, and I set off towards Hogsmeade.

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I suppose that this chapter has a lot of inner world action going on and not a lot of outer world action, but perhaps you will still find it in your hearts to review. I mean, it isn't as if updates depend on it, because I'm just going to keep updating until I'm not allowed on the computer again. But if you want to review, please do.


	7. Insert Stupid Chapter Title Here

Thank you to Morzan's Elvish Daughter, my _only_ reviewer! (Look, if the rest of you don't like it, just tell me. I can take it.) I can't think of anything witty or sarcastic to say about this chapter, so...Enjoy!

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To say that it wasn't a very nice day outside would be to say that You-Know-Who had a few personality problems. It was cold for October, and the sky was slate-gray and spat, occasionally, a bit of cold and stinging rain. But I pulled my cloak over my head and kept walking (a tiny bit of me was grateful that this was _not_ the day of my first date, but that part was quickly squashed by the fact that the rest of me was still furious). But the Three Broomsticks was as warm and cozy as ever, and I spotted Emma quickly—

_Oh, shit._

Emma and Leah were sitting with three boys. That was fine. The one nearest Emma was a Hufflepuff whose name I couldn't remember, and Leah was…cuddling…with a sharp-faced Slytherin who only looked at her and smiled, but the third…was Garrett Drake.

_Get out, get out, get out_ quick—Too late. "Rose!" Emma called, waving frantically to me. The others turned (well, Leah's Slytherin didn't) and Drake beckoned. As I came closer, cursing my rotten luck with every step, I saw Em's face fall. "Rose? Are you okay?"

I forced a smile. "I'm fine," I said. I was lying to her a lot lately.

"I'll get you a Butterbeer," said Drake, and I forced myself to smile at him too. I sat beside Emma, unwrapping my scarf and taking off my mittens. _Breathe. You like Butterbeer. You like Emma. You're happy._

"So where were you?" Emma asked.

"Oh, I was just being slow," I said, avoiding her gaze. I _knew_ the look she would be giving me, and it wasn't one I enjoyed. Drake came back with the Butterbeer, handed it to me, and then sat again, far too close for my liking. They talked—I didn't listen too closely; instead I watched the door and the various people who came in and out. And then I stopped watching even that, my eyes glazed over—I didn't even have anywhere to go; my anger had dissipated into a sort of tired emptiness—and knew very little until I felt, very gently, Drake's hand on my waist. I couldn't help it – I gave a little half-shriek and jerked away, and at that moment I saw a pale gold head come in through the door. The head was bowed, and he was alone—I didn't care. My anger flared back into full and vibrant life once more at the sight of him, but this time it was usable anger, anger I could think through.

I wasn't going to slap him, oh no. I had something far more painful in mind.

Taking a deep breath, I turned to Drake and smiled. "Sorry about that," I said, making my voice sweet. "You startled me." I scooted a bit closer to him; he replaced his hand around my waist. I felt the urge once more to get away, but I dealt with it and smiled at him.

I heard the door to the Three Broomsticks slam, and felt a small amount of satisfaction. _Take that, Malfoy._

We walked back to Hogwarts as a group, arms intertwined, talking. I took comfort from Emma on my right, and tried to ignore Drake on my left—she knew something was wrong, I could tell, but she waited until we left the others at the base of a stairway. Then she turned to me. "All right, Rose," she said. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to talk about it," I said, and something in my voice must have convinced her that I wasn't going to talk about it.

"All right," she said, in a voice that promised further interrogation later, and to keep her off the subject I began pelting her with questions.

"Who was that Slytherin Leah was with?" I asked; she giggled.

"Pierce Jantzen. Scary, isn't he?" but it didn't sound like she thought he was scary. It sounded like she thought he was hilarious.

I threw her a bone; she was _dying_ to tell me whatever it was about Leah and this Pierce Jantzen. "What's so funny, Em?"

"Well, just—the two of them. You weren't paying attention in the Three Broomsticks, were you…" She examined my face and continued, full speed ahead. "…but surely you must have _seen_ them! It's just funny! And so odd to see him _smiling._ Apparently he's fancied her since they were little—he lives pretty near us—but she's halfblood, he's a Slytherin, she thinks he's a git, he's bloated with pureblood pride, but anyway…well, even she wouldn't tell me if in the end he asked her out or she did, but the result is what you saw. I just think it's a little funny, really."

I didn't see the humor, but then, I didn't know Leah well enough to, and, well…I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to see the humor in a lot of things for a while.

Emma managed to control her curiosity all through dinner, and even sat quietly while I forced myself to do my homework. Halfway through, she gave up. "All right, Rose," she said. "And I'm not taking no for an answer this time. What's with you? I've never seen you like this before." I turned away; she took my chin and made me look at her. "What happened to my happy Rosie? Who took her? And can I kill him?"

I felt my chin quiver, felt my eyes fill with tears. She pulled me into a hug, and I sobbed into her shoulder.

_It shouldn't have mattered it shouldn't have mattered it shouldn't have mattered—_

_It does._

I told her everything, in the end, absolutely everything. I started with the owl, and skipped nothing from there, until finally I ended with today in the Three Broomsticks, and she listened—listened absolutely silently, a rare occurrence for her—and when I was done she shook her head. "Rose," she said, "oh, Rosie, what have you gotten yourself into?"

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Jantzen, by the way, is a brand of men's bathing attire, or it was in the sixties and seventies. I needed a name with a 'z' in it. I suppose theoretically the short saga of Leah and random-Slytherin wasn't necessary, but...oh well. Please review!


	8. More Questions Than Answers

Thank you to daughter of apollon, FleaBlack, and sherbetgirl, and of course to Morzan's Elvish Daughter for reviewing! You are wonderful! …As for the rest of you, well, there's always this chapter!

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If I had been just a little less angry, I probably would have talked to him. Maybe I should have.

Having said that, if he had been just a little bit less haughty and pureblooded and full of male pride, he probably would have talked to me. I saw him looking at me during class (part of me would want to say 'of course') and I couldn't tell if it looked like he wanted to cry or wanted to kill me. Or someone.

But there was only so much time I could spend on any boy, even Scorpius Malfoy, and so I planned to let homework eat my life. It would have been surprisingly easy—I had a _lot_ of homework—but I got a letter from Mum that, in a very clichéd way, changed everything.

_My_ letter had been sent on a whim, with Scorpius Malfoy and his blatant avoidance of the hospital wing containing Fritz, the Slytherin Beater, and…the fact that he didn't have many friends fresh in my mind. I'd asked about the Sorting. On a whim, remember.

It hadn't been answered on a whim. I swear, my mother memorized everything.

_Dear Rose,_ my mother wrote,

_What an odd question. To be frank, I was nearly delirious with fear the entire time—_but then she went on to describe the entire thing, complete with the exact lyrics of the Sorting Hat's song. I skimmed through it until finally a name jumped out at me: _Malfoy._

_I swear, Rosie, the Hat had barely touched his head before it bellowed out 'SLYTHERIN!' (Your father wants me to tell you that he thinks it didn't want to be sitting on his slimy head anymore)…But why do you ask, Rose? I hope no one's giving you trouble?…_

…_Love,_

_Mum._

I didn't want to be thinking about Scorpius Malfoy, let alone about his _father._ But I'd written the letter for a bloody reason, and I didn't want to remember what it was, but I did. (Why I'd thought this was a reason, I didn't know…) The Sorting Hat had seemed to sit on Scorpius's head for a long, long time before it finally decided on Slytherin.

It was with these thoughts in my head that I made my slow way down the steps from the Owlrey. The school seemed deserted, the halls absolutely empty, so I was surprised when I heard voices I vaguely recognized floating through the hall. There was a bitter, angry edge to them, and I tiptoed closer, listening.

"…traitorous filth!" There was the sound of someone being kicked, followed by a grunt of pain.

"They shouldn't have let your worthless parents live," said another voice, low and silky and female. I could put a name to this one: Eleanor Goyle, and the other was probably her twin's. (Where Eleanor had gotten her lovely voice was anyone's guess, from what I had heard about her father from my parents.)

There was a mumble, too low and soft for me to hear, and I crept closer, straining my ears.

"You're a disgrace to the noble house of Slytherin, you and all your family. I wouldn't try to come into the dormitory tonight," Eleanor said again, and I barely had time to flatten myself against the wall as she swept past, her brother in tow.

Now that I was sure the coast was clear, I stepped out into the hallway. Someone lay on the floor, groaning faintly as he tried to get up. I caught sight of the pale golden hair, shining dully in the dim light, and half-turned to run away. But my feet wouldn't move, and so I stood there as he slowly got to his feet. As he turned, he saw me. "Weasley." His voice was dull, tired, and thick with pain. "What do you want?"

"I don't—nothing—I can help," I stammered, and clapped a hand over my mouth. _Merlin's beard, what did I just say?_

Malfoy laughed. "What makes you think I _want_ your help, Weasley?" he demanded.

"Fine," I said, turning on my heel and stalking off. But before I could get more than fifty paces I turned, stomping quickly back towards him. "You," I said, drawing near to him, "are," planting my feet firmly, "a," I raised my hand, "git!" I slapped him with all my might.

I am not a strong person, physically. Malfoy didn't even have the good grace to look like he was in pain, damn him, as he caught my arm by the wrist and held it away from my face, his eyes blazing. "Was that really necessary?" he asked, and when he spoke his voice was terrifyingly calm and conversational. "Was that really, really necessary, Rose?"

_He called me Rose—_

"Yes," I said, just as calmly, "it was." We stood there, eye to eye, for what seemed like a long time. "I can still help you. If you want me to."

"What kind of help would you give? A kick to the gut?" he asked, laughing a little. He readjusted his grip a little so he held my hand; slowly he lowered that arm. I was very conscious of his hand holding mine and of his body so close. I laughed too, nervously.

"I'm still mad at you," I said.

"I can believe that."

"But you need to sleep somewhere—I don't suppose your parents ever knew about it, but mine did—and a place to do your homework…" I was babbling. I took a deep breath. "Come with me. Unless you'd rather sleep in the hall." We were still holding hands.

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I apologize for the brevity of this chapter, as well as for the long delay in posting it. Apologies also for the 'mediocre romance novel scene,' I couldn't resist. Please review, and a special secret prize to the person who knows where Rose is taking him and tells me in her/his review.


	9. The Room of Requirement

This is awfully short, and an extremely unexpected appearance. However, I'm revisiting all my old stories, and this is the only one I currently deem worthy of redemption. It's going to get yet ANOTHER major overhaul, but in the meantime, I'll try to post a few more chapters of the old version, just so people will remember me.

Also, every single reviewer was correct. You ALL guessed where she was taking him. I am ridiculously predictable.

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I didn't know whether Malfoy had heard about the Room of Requirement from his father, but I certainly knew about it. Albus and James and Tina Shacklebolt were always sneaking off to it, and my brother Hugo and his friend Alex Chang were always trying to follow them, and one of them dragged me along often enough that I could probably have gotten there in my sleep. "Where are we going?" Malfoy asked, and I could hear the pain in his voice. He was walking strangely, too, and trying to hide it.

"Someplace private," I said. Malfoy laughed, and winced, and I blushed when I realized how that must have sounded. "A place my parents told me about," I amended. "Not many people know it's there."

"Do your parents talk to you about going here?" he asked.

"All the time," I said. We had slowed to a snail's pace, and if I told myself it was to accommodate Malfoy, who was probably in pain, then I was only lying a little bit. "Sometimes I think Dad would rather be here than at his job." I gave a nervous little giggle, and a moment of silence passed. "Don't yours?"

"Never," he said as we rounded the final corner and stood before a stretch of blank wall.

"Give me a minute," I said, closing my eyes and turning away from him. _I need a place for Malfoy to stay for the night,_ I thought. _I need a place for him to be safe. I need a place for us to be alone—_ Before I could take back the thought, an unassuming wooden door appeared in the wall. Hoping the gloom would hide my blush, I led him inside.

I had seen the Room set up for many different purposes: spacious, with few breakable objects, for spell practice; hung with hammocks and filled with peculiar magical games for an illicit night spent outside the dormitory, under protest, with James, Albus, Tina, and, to their immense delight, Hugo and Alex; and once, memorably, filled with nothing but sour gray ashes that smoked ominously, remnants of the Place of Hidden Things, that my father showed me when he came to visit two years ago.

But I had never seen it look like this. It was a bit like a dormitory, with thick rugs on the floor, a single four-poster bed hung with green (for Malfoy the Slytherin, of course) in one corner, and a pair of armchairs in another. There was also a stack of sixth-level books and plenty of ink and parchment on a table at the other end of the room.

Malfoy came in behind me, and the door closed and locked with a click of finality. The room, which had seemed perfectly comfortable a moment ago, now seemed very small. And warm. And— "So, here we are!" I said too brightly. "I guess…we've already eaten dinner, so you're good for the rest of the time, and…I'll be going now?"

"Fine," he said, brushing past me into the room, but as he went he stumbled, and almost fell to the floor with a cry of pain.

"What did they even do to you?" I asked, half in exasperation and half in concern. "Throw you on the ground and beat you with sticks?"

"Not exactly," he said, not laughing. I helped him up, and led him to one of the chairs—_definitely one of the chairs, definitely not the bed_—and crouched beside him. "_Petrificuls totalus,_" he explained, "only Titus Crabbe did it, and he's horrible at it, and I could still move a bit. They kicked me a little, not too much—OW!" I had accidentally poked him in the side.

"You know I probably can't fix all this," I said, trying to simultaneously conjure water and freeze it for an ice pack – one of my mother's favorite heal-all Muggle tricks, though it probably wouldn't work if anything was broken, and I didn't want to have anything to do with it if there were ribs involved, and if he was very bruised he would probably need to go to the hospital wing anyway…

He sighed. "I don't expect you to, Weasley. I'm…" I had the sense that he was struggling to either find the words or simply say them. "…I'm glad you helped me. But you can leave now. If you want."

I raised my eyebrows. "Do you want me to?"

There was a pause. "No," he said. "I want you to stay." He shifted a little so that he was looking at me straight on, and one of his hands was very close to mine. "I really want you to stay, Rose."

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Please review!


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